


Only because he loves her

by ChocoNut



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cersei orders him, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Starts after 4x4, Tywin makes him an offer, Yes Jaime goes after his wench, season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27348769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: Soon after Jaime lets Brienne leave King's Landing, Cersei commands him to find her and Sansa and kill them.Tywin Lannister, of course, has plans of his own.Note (08-Mar-2021) : The next update is taking longer than I’d planned. Can’t promise, but I should be able to have it up in another week. Thank you for your patience!
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 97
Kudos: 191





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few things before we begin-  
> 1\. This would be about 5-6 chapters as of now (but may get longer if my mind starts running wild)  
> 2\. I'm taking a lot of liberties with this, tweaking around a lot of canon, but the implications of these changes on the global endgame are not in the scope of this story.  
> 3\. This is a JB love story and fully focused on them (the whole thing is set between 4x4 and before Sansa is rescued). Those who read my fics will know I'm not invested in the other characters, so if you're looking for an overall plot, this is not it :) The JB romance is the only thing that'll be resolved at the end of this. The other threads, I will leave to your imagination.
> 
> Lastly, thank you for reading and welcome to yet another ride with me!

_Ser Jaime,_

_I write this to express what I couldn’t put forth in words—_

He pauses, looks up in recollection of that heart-wrenching moment, those large blue eyes pushing all else out of his head. Shining and eloquent and unbelievably beautiful, they’ve gained a permanent residence in his mind’s eye, especially after she thrust this unexpected gem into his hand just before turning her back to him.

He reads on, the words he’s memorized evoking inside him, a comforting rush of warmth. The Brienne of Tarth he’s known is a woman of so much, but a woman of words, he’s never perceived her to be.

 _Pauses and unfinished sentences_ , he chuckles to himself as he moves further down, each time he encounters a blot of ink or a roadblock deterring her from what she wants to say. In that respect, she’s so much like him. Never a man to speak to his emotions, he’s found confronting them far more tedious than slashing an opponent in half.

_You have bestowed upon me not just these priceless gifts, but also charged me with a responsibility I swear I will give everything I have to uphold. Not that your honour needs any restoration—I have seen the real you when you—_

There, again, her mind has run away, seeking refuge in some godforsaken corner he can’t reach, leaving him with a long spell of abruptness, the rest of what she’d begun to say incomplete, the core of her thoughts undisclosed, but Jaime doesn’t need the rest of her words to tell him what she’s referring to. This strange bond between them—whether it is fragile or strong, he doesn’t know, yet, but whatever it is, he’s certain it isn’t going to let go of him easily.

Like this letter he cannot get enough of, he knows it's going to draw him back to these memories, to everything they’ve endured together.

_Accept my gratitude, ser, for—for everything—_

Again, there’s this inability to spread it out in writing. But again, he doesn’t need to read it. It’s like he can read her mind even when she’s out somewhere—

Stopping there, he folds the letter and tucks it away safely in a book for now and leans back in his chair. He’s read it about a dozen times now, and every single time he opens it, he can hear the unwavering faith in her voice, feel the emotions behind every line on that parchment, sense her respect, that she truly believes in him, the man he is and the one he can be. 

“I hope it isn’t goodbye, Brienne,” he murmurs, his parting words to her coming back to haunt him. He knows he’s wishing away into nothing, that these thoughts are futile and they’re destined for different paths, yet, he can’t bring himself to indulge in this fleeting moment. Despite his disbelief in the gods, he cannot keep himself from saying a little prayer for her.

Tempted, he gazes at the edge of the letter peeping out from in between the pages. Craving for one more glimpse, he’s about to pull it out when a knock to the door cuts into this solitude he wishes would return to him soon after this intervention, for this is where he can unabashedly cut himself out of the reality he’s bound to face. 

In this world that belongs to her and him, he feels honoured, feels like the knight the world has long forgotten he is.

“Enter,” he calls out, when the knock gets urgent.

He is greeted by one of Cersei’s men—a deep bow and a reverent, “M’lord.” But all Jaime can hear is _Kingslayer._ No one would say it to his face, but everyone, this man included, felt just that for him— 

_Everyone except Brienne…_

“Her grace wishes to see you, m’lord.”

“I’ll be there in a while—”

“ _Now_ , m’lord,” the man stresses, determined to stand there until Jaime responds favourably.

“Very well,” Jaime agrees, fully aware that Cersei wouldn’t take too kindly to a delay.

Since his return to what could be termed as the farthest from a warm welcome home he’d craved for, answering the queen’s summons hasn’t boded well for Jaime. This time, he believes, isn’t going to be any different, and hit by a sense of doom, a rush of walking into peril’s den, he makes his trip from his tower to his sister’s chambers buried in his own mind. Scarcely acknowledging the passersby he runs into, he doubles his pace, wanting to make it to her quickly, keen to get this over with. 

When he’s there, at last, when his companion takes leave of him after paying his respects to his twin, he stands before her, awaiting her purpose. 

But she doesn’t speak for a good few seconds, only paces back and forth like a lioness mulling over the best way to make a meal of her prey, which he presumes, is going to be him, tonight. His patience begins to wear out, the sight of her measured movements makes him dizzy, and just when he’s about to express his discomfort, she comes to a halt before him. 

“It’s a pity you don’t feel it as much as I do,” she lets it out. Her voice, though soft, is the cutting edge of a blade, and it slices through him like a sharp knife sawing through tender meat. “Doesn’t your blood boil? Don’t your hands—” She looks down at his golden limb—more so, the lack of the real one, her eyes spewing at him what is unmistakably disdain and burning rage. “Don’t you ever feel like avenging him?”

Joffrey’s condescending insults visit his mind, and Jaime swallows an involuntary retort, having nothing nice to say for the boy he’d be hesitant to call a son even if he hadn’t sired him out of wedlock. But as a sworn member of the Kingsguard, of course, he’d failed, and this guilt will never leave him, never let him rest.

“Find Sansa Stark and bring me her head,” she tosses it at him, white hot anger seething through her lips. “Only then can I—”

“You’re not even sure if she killed him,” Jaime says, an uneasiness of a different kind clutching at him from within.

“Are _you_ sure she’s innocent?”

He refrains from answering.

“Speaking of you—” She shoots him a glare that races through his eyes, goes deeper, touches where he doesn’t want her to reach. “What I’m certainly unsure of is where your loyalties lie these days.”

He can sense what she’s hinting at, but decides to play it cautiously. She probably knows he’s been to the dungeons engaging in secret meetings with Tyrion. Joffrey was his son, but there’s a brother he cares for down in the bowels of doom, the only person in this world apart from Brienne who’s treated him with regard. Any words he might utter, he might end up worsening the misery this unfortunate turn of events have put Tyrion in. 

“You know quite well who I’m talking about,” Cersei hisses, miffed by the lack of his response. “That ugly cow—” 

She holds back when Jaime takes a tentative step forward, itching to reprimand her for this lowly reference to a lady, but the chilling edge to her tone keeps him within the line, snapping him out of his concern for his brother and into another thread of thought equally frightening. 

“Have you pledged yourself to her?” she starts again, clearly on her way to provoke him into an answer. “Have you sworn yourself to the Starks—”

“You know I can do no such thing.” 

“And you know your beast of a friend will do anything to keep Sansa safe.” She draws closer. “Go after them, Jaime.” He can almost taste the venom in her breath. “Kill her, too.”

He recoils at the death sentence she’s so easily pronounced, is about to shoot back with his vehement denial, but then, the wench’s impending plight hanging on this loose thread causes him to think twice. He lets his reaction simmer away, gulping down the bile rising in his chest.

“Finish them both, Jaime, and do your duty towards the crown, our family,” she commands again, the prospect of what this might mean for the wench freezing his bones. “You love me, you say?”

Uncertain of that anymore, he hesitates.

“Prove it then.” The evil smile forming at the end of her mouth tells him she’s taken his silence for an affirmation. “Go after them.”

 _If you don’t, I will make sure someone else swings the sword,_ her eyes spell out the rest, and Jaime immediately realizes the only way he can ensure Brienne’s safety is to reach her as soon as he can.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Her insistence that he leave by daybreak, the triumphant smile she breaks into when he consents, her far-from-affectionate dismissal of him—none of it matters when he makes his way out of there. When he let go of Brienne, he did anticipate a threat to her life, but never in his wildest dreams did he imagine Cersei’s jealousy would bring her to inflict such a torture upon him.

Only two choices, he’s now left with. Kill Brienne and fulfill his promise to the throne, which is—why the fuck is he even thinking about that? The one thing he can do is to defy his orders, to find Brienne and flee her to safety, someplace his vile sister can’t get her hands to him—

“M’lord.”

The presence of one of his father’s men at his doorstep brings Jaime out of his trance. “Lord Tywin wishes for your company.”

He is in half a mind to turn him down, but decides against it. “Very well.”

Solitude and peace is something he’s going to have to earn tonight, and his head swimming with possible directions this unexpected meeting with his father can go in, he sets out with his messenger hoping the outcome this time isn’t as disastrous as before.

“Sit,” says his father, as soon as they’re shut within the privacy of his closed doors.

Jaime does as told, doesn’t question him, though his mind cannot sit still, not especially when his father begins striding up and down. What is it with his family tonight?

“I know what Cersei’s put you up to.”

Jaime knows better than to be surprised. He should’ve expected this man to be two steps ahead of Cersei. After all, whatever she’s learnt, she’s taken it from him.

“You think she’s going to send you out on this quest and keep quiet?” Tired of pacing, his father takes the chair on the other side of the table. “You think she believes you’ll live up to this bloody promise she’s forced you into making?” He shakes his head before Jaime can reply. “The moment you leave the keep, she’ll be sending men to tail you, to make sure the job doesn’t remain unfinished. She knows you’ll change your mind, Jaime—”

“Why will she think I’ll change my mind?” Whether to trust his father with his true intent or not, he isn’t yet sure, so again, he faces no choice but to take the next step with care. “I care for my family, for her, so why would it even occur to her that I might betray—”

“—because you’re in love with the Tarth woman.” 

The bluntness of it hitting him like a storm unexpected, Jaime sinks back into his chair, blood drained out of his veins all at once.

“Aren’t you?” his father asks again, and unless Jaime’s thoroughly mistaken, he can make out a little twinkle in those aged green eyes. “Go on, tell me it’s untrue,” he keeps on, undoubtedly enjoying himself.

Once again, silence is all he can respond with. He wants to firmly confirm there’s no such thing, that this is all a mistaken conclusion, but at the same time, he can’t bring himself to—

“That you aren’t outright denying it is the first step in the right direction.” His father leans forward. “And taking my offer will be the next.”

This drags his mind back to a working state again. “Offer?”

“Do you want to keep Lady Brienne safe or not?” His enthusiasm to uncover the rest of it winning over patience, his father starts to elaborate without invitation. “Find them both. Renounce your kingsguard position and marry Lady Brienne and I promise, I will make sure Tyrion is a free man as soon as you give me your word that you are up to this.”

While this is a surprise he hasn’t anticipated, his father’s face tells him he hasn’t finished laying out the deal in its entirety.

“If you decide to accept Casterly Rock, I will give you my word that I’ll take all steps required to thwart Cersei’s plans to murder this woman you love,” he goes on enticingly, drawing him towards bait after bait. “If she sends men after you, I’ll make sure they meet their end before they even set foot out of—” 

“Brienne will never agree,” Jaime weakly protests, knowing how staunch she is in the pursuit of her ideals. “And I can’t—” 

“You want her,” his father notes, looking deep into his eyes, “I can sense it—so blatant and naked—it is out there for everyone to see, son.” He gets up, gets around the table to Jaime’s side. “Do as I say, and I promise once Sansa is found, I will make sure she’s cleared of all suspicion, safe and out of Cersei’s reach. If she wants the marriage annulled, I am willing to consider that, too.”

“Why would you give up Sansa?” Jaime asks, unconvinced with this bit. “She’s your key to the North—”

“I know Tyrion hasn’t touched her yet, and I’m quite certain this marriage will not bring me heirs even if I prevail over Cersei’s blood lust for the girl and coerce her back into it. But you—what you feel for Selwyn Tarth’s daughter—” Tywin pauses, his chest swelling. “My first born and heir, willing to settle down—Sansa Stark is a small price to pay for that.”

Jaime gets up, for the second time tonight, nodding despite not being fully into it, not knowing what to make of this web he’s getting sucked deeper into. Brienne will never consent to this—that he can conclude without any deliberation. 

But to take his father’s word and go for it, he knows, is the only path of safety for the wench. If there’s anyone who can keep Cersei in check, it is their father.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunion.

“I don’t see why you have to be such a grouchy, grumpy lover-boy,” Bronn grumbles after what is just mere minutes of silent riding but one of those awful spells that feel like hours. “You’re on your way to seek out and marry the woman you love. If I were in your place, I’d be a lot more livelier than you are.”

All Jaime can resort to is roll his eyes and bite the inside of his cheek. He’s well aware of the suffering he’d have to endure if he cracks or flares up at this teasing. But then, what does Bronn know about everything that’s churning his mind, turning it inside out? Love, or as he has defined it all these years, has turned out a rude joke, a shock he is yet to come to terms with. And what he shares with Brienne, the warmth he’s feeling within at the mention of her name, the wonderful dreams he’s stumbled over quite recently, he knows, is not written in his destiny. He is not naive to think she’d readily jump into this pit of fire he’s drawing her to the edge of, this trap his father has set for them both. 

This unavoidable ride down into the unknown—it is not to forge a bond of matrimony, but to find and take her someplace safe, to make sure his family doesn’t— 

“You can’t deny you’re looking forward to meeting her.” Bronn tugs at his beast, slows down to talk to him. “Silence has never been your thing, but ever since she’s left, you’ve become one of those brooding, gloomy types—”

“If you’ve had enough of insulting me, can we go on a bit faster?” Jaime cuts him, that every word he’s being hit with is truth, hitting hard to push through his shield of calm, to get through his defenses and shatter his determination to approach this matter with a logical head.

Bronn obliges him, but it’s only for now. Jaime knows the man who knows his weaknesses like the back of his hand. It won’t be long before the infuriating sellsword picks up on something else. Promises, of a castle, of a wife lovelier than his betrothed Lollys Stokeworth, it has taken to bribe him into this journey, but then, there’s no one else Jaime can count on to accompany him. 

Unbidden, his gaze slips down to his golden burden. If he still was the man he once was, he wouldn’t have had to depend on another, wouldn’t have had to coax and negotiate to wriggle things his way. _But then, if you were the man you once were, you wouldn’t have been the same with her,_ a painfully honest _something_ deep down inside him points out. _And she wouldn’t have felt this regard, this—_

Sighing, he loosens his hold on the reins to pull out the precious letter. This is all he has of her other than memories, all he’d ever have, for she would never—

“A love letter?”

Jaime thrusts it back inside to glare at this unwanted interruption. “None of your concern.”

“I knew it.” Bronn has on that annoying smirk that tells him he’s reading into this more than he’s supposed to, more than it is meant to be. “I could see it that morning when she tearfully rode away from you.”

“She’s never going to marry a man like me,” Jaime voices it out, huffing out a deep breath to purge himself of this disappointment. “And I’m not expecting her to, either.”

“But it does bother you.” Bronn steers his horse to a halt. Having no other choice, Jaime is forced to follow suit. “It’s killing you, isn’t it—”

“We’re going to find them both and take them to the free cities,” Jaime explains the plan he has finalized after careful consideration of the situation. “Lady Brienne is not bound to oblige me just because my father wants me to—”

“—wed her, bed her, put a child in her?” Bronn proposes in an impeccable impersonation of his father’s ultimate expectation. “And you don’t want that?”

 _I don’t,_ Jaime wants to shout out, to look him in the eye and shove the evidence of his resolve down the man’s petty throat, but it all comes crumbling down before he can even open his mouth. A fucking lie has become a task tedious enough to shackle his chest with chains of uneasiness.

“You do, don’t you?” Bronn keeps it on, his eyes shifting from Jaime’s heaving chest to the fingers tightly clenched around the reins. “I’ve seen you both going at each other whenever she came down to witness your training—” he pauses, turns his horse around so they’re face to face. “The longing, the heat in the air and all that tension—” he tilts his head slightly, as if challenging him to deny it, then continues, “—the way she overpowered you, pinned you down, her body on yours, her thighs grinding against your coc—”

“Shut up,” Jaime roars in frustration, for that is _exactly_ what he’d felt for the wench that fateful morning. Lust and more, an urge to do more than gaze into those eyes whenever an opportunity presented itself to him. Desire laced with a yearning to stay with her forever, it is nothing like what he’s felt for Cersei. “Enough of—” 

“My shutting up will not calm down your racing heart,” Bronn lazily steers him towards the painful truth again. “Or your raging loins,” he adds in a sly bit of afterthought.

Fortunately, though, his lips remain sewn, tightly shut after that, and the matter is laid to rest. Jaime is cautious not to broach any subject for fear of it leading into uncomfortable territory. He’s content with contending with the issues in his mind, trying to think of the next step as soon as both women are out of temporary dangers. Pentos, he could send her to, ask her to lie low for a while until he can find a way to pacify his family, but then—

“That man behind us—” Bronn starts suddenly, startling him out of his conundrum, and by instinct Jaime is about to whirl around when he barks, “Don’t look, you’ll catch his attention.”

Jaime surveys his surroundings, instead. They’re almost at the edges of a village with the day bidding them goodbye. “We can halt here for the night.”

“And, maybe, think about how to deal with our shadow,” Bronn agrees, then lowering his voice, hisses, “I saw him at the city gates when we left the capital.”

Jaime’s stomach leaps to where his heart is. Cersei, who else? “But it can’t be,” he thinks aloud. “Father assured me he’ll take care of—”

“It could be your father’s man,” Bronn surmises as they take a turn towards the inn. “He might be having us tailed to keep an eye on you, to make sure you don’t waver from your word.” 

Quite possible, coming to think of it. With his father, anything’s possible. “How do we shake him off?”

“There’s only one way.” The roguish half-smile is back to taunt him. “Find her, fuck her, then wed her—” his brows meet in thought “—or you can wed her first, then bed—”

“Oh, enough of this nonsense,” Jaime’s almost shouting now, though a stir beneath him tells him his body tends to agree with his unfavourable neighbour. “You know that’s not possible.” 

“ _Pretend_ you want her then,” Bronn offers him an alternative that’s going to be tortuous. “I know you do want her—but in her eyes, you’ll be pretending, although what you feel—your mind, your body, it’s all real for you.”

Unfortunately, this, Jaime knows, is the only way out.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“May I?”

Brienne looks up from the lion she’s been caressing for a while, nods to the lad awaiting her permission to enter. She lays the precious sword on the bedroll, and still lost in thought, she continues to gaze at it as if the man behind it might grace her with his presence if she stared long enough.

_It’s yours._

The words ring in her ears as if it was yesterday. Such faith in her, his eyes had held that day, the confidence that she’ll make it to the end despite all odds. But all she has to her credit since then is finding and losing Arya and no information of Sansa’s whereabouts.

“We’ll find them soon, m’lady.” Pod sits down beside her. “We—”

“Lady Brienne.”

Brienne stiffens, then blames her imagination which is getting increasingly vivid day by day, so much that she’s now starting to hear voices in her head due to thinking about him night and day, only convincing herself it’s real when Pod, who seems to be more in his senses than her these days, shuffles to his feet. With a quiet nod to seek her consent to leave, the young man passes Jaime on his way out, his gentle, “Ser Jaime,” confirming this isn’t unfolding in her mind.

“Can I come in?”

He’s awaiting her word, but all she can do is breathe in and out, take him in whilst her mind is splitting into a handful of threads trying to fly away in many directions at once, each, though, converging at a point, speculating possible answers for just one question. _Why is he here?_

“Don’t keep him waiting, my lady,” another familiar voice calls out from behind him, and the next instant, Bronn and the all-perceiving look in his eyes appear to greet her. “We’ve been through a long journey and all he has spoken about, is you—”

“Enough, Bronn,” Jaime shoots him down before he can go on, not at all subtle in his scowl of displeasure. “If you could—”

“I’ll go set up another tent along with Pod,” Bronn offers, not letting Jaime finish, “while you and the lady—” The rest of this, he doesn’t finish, though, and doesn’t wait for either of their concurrence before he turns and swishes away, Podrick at his heel, leaving Brienne along with Jaime at her doorstep. 

“You plan to keep me waiting here all night, wench?” he asks in a teasing lilt, a smile knocking on the doors of his lips. “Of course, if you don’t feel like it right now—” he loses the smile to a line or two creasing his forehead “—I could come back in a while when you’re—”

“My apologies,” she says breezily, sounding like one of those maidens smitten to numbness when the man of their dreams pays them a corporeal visit. “Do come in.”

They settle down by the fire—him at one corner of the bedroll, her on the other, neither looking at the other. Second after second passes, and Brienne waits, eager for him to declare his intent, to know why he’s out here in the middle of nowhere when he ought to be with the love of his life.

“Brienne, I—”

“Ser Jaime—” she begins simultaneously, when her curiosity cannot be contained anymore, then holds back, keen to hear from him. “You first. What brings you here?”

“You,” he says, simply, plainly.

She raises her brows, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

He goes on to explain, telling her how his sister’s after her head, his father’s counter-proposal to mitigate her threat leading to his own—

“You want to marry me?” she repeats, wondering if he’s in some trance. 

For a fleeting moment, her heart holds still, too stunned to keep going. It’s finally true, the dream of a red cloak embracing her shoulders almost coming to life. But when Cersei’s face barges in uninvited, invading her mind, reality washes over the pretty picture she’s painted, a harsh wave wiping it all clean. Should it even happen between them, a marriage is all it will be, not a union of two hearts, not the fruitful triumph of true love.

“I understand it isn’t the right way,” he says, looking down at his lap. “You have a purpose, a direction, a life of your own and by no means do I want to jeopardise it all, but—” he looks up, worried eyes drawing hers in a gaze she can’t steer herself away from “—I had no other choice but to agree, Brienne. I can’t resign myself to sleepless nights wondering whether Cersei somehow got to you, whether you’re—”

“I can take care of myself, Ser Jaime,” she gently reassures him, forcing as much calm as she can into her voice. 

“I know, but I failed to convince my raging nerves.” As if to prove it to her, the corners of his eyes twitch in apprehension. “But I will do nothing to coerce you, emotionally or by other means. I do not wish to make you my wife under such unfavourable circumstances.”

She looks deep into those eyes for answers that aren’t there, yet. “What will you do then?”

“I’ll think of something as soon as I have you and Sansa sailing out somewhere to safety.” 

“What about your brother?” she inquires, noting the pain in his eyes. “The moment your father knows you’ve betrayed him—” If this one move of hers could save an innocent life— 

“I need some time to mull over what you’ve set before me,” she says, choosing to defer her decision for now.

“You don’t _have to_ accept me, Brienne.” He holds her gaze with the fierce intensity of his own. “Whatever be your decision, nothing changes between us.” 

With that marking the end of the matter for now, they leave the tent to meet their companions outside who have laid out the food and a welcoming fire that would’ve been inviting if it weren’t for the heaviness in Brienne’s head.

Minutes trickle by, supper is largely a subdued affair with extended periods of loaded silence—for Jaime and her, at least, with Bronn engaging in a noisy conversation with Pod about swordplay and women and what it takes to please one in bed.

“Ignore him,” Jaime advises, when Brienne crinkles her nose at one of Bronn’s elaborately bawdy suggestions. “He’s doing it on purpose.”

“Why would he do it on purpose?”

“Because—” he takes to drawing lines on the mud with a stick “—because he feels—”

“It’s time to end the day, don’t you think?” They look up to find Bronn grinning down at them. “Unless you two plan to sit here all night, admiring the moonlight and each other—” he trails off when Jaime makes a displeased face. “You and the lady can take one tent while I—”

Brienne coughs out her water. “With him?” 

“I thought you’d be happy about it, my lady,” Bronn cockily replies. “Better him than—”

“My father’s keeping an eye on us.” Jaime gets to his feet, then sheepishly relates the tale of the stranger watching their moves. “If we resist or show signs that we know he’s around, it might go against us. So the only thing that makes sense is that you and I—”

He pauses, Brienne waits, her breaths taking less frequent journeys in and out of her body. 

“This lone spy we spied upon may not be the only one, there’s bound to be others in hiding. Until they let down their guard, we shouldn’t give them reason to act,” he goes on with his justification, looking as uncomfortable as her.

“Fine.” 

Getting up, Brienne begins to collect their things, her mind buzzing to find a way out of this new complication. Yes, she has shared a bed with Jaime in the past. And no, the mere thought of it, then, had not left her palms all sweaty and a wave of heat gushing up her chest. _It’s going to be just like old times,_ she tells herself as she trudges back in. _He feels nothing for me, he’s only here to keep me alive._

And that bit of truth bothering her beyond what she’s prepared for, she starts attacking her armour. _I feel no more than an attraction, either,_ she retorts, _It'll pass, it'll go away before I—_

“Let me help.”

His voice is music, his breath a soft sheet of cotton comforting her skin. Any resistance she means to build up is nipped in the bud when he touches her arm, and she turns around, giving in, letting him take over Podrick’s nightly chore.

They work on her armour for a while, the clink of a clasp being undone, the occasional hoot of an owl or some other beast howling in the distance, the only sounds to fill their tent. Apart from her heavy breathing, of course, and the thunderous pounding of her heart whenever his fingertips meet her bare skin.

“Father probably thinks the more time I spend with you, the more we’ll bond together,” he says, staying by her side even after they’re done.

“So he wants you to court me?” The moment her thoughts are out into words, she wonders why she’s voiced it, the whole prospect sounding stranger than anything she’s heard. But then, if only she wasn’t an undesirable wench and he wasn’t the handsome _him_ , this wouldn't have sounded so odd.

“Probably,” he shrugs, his voice dropping to lower than its usual. Is it her imagination or has he stepped a bit closer? Suddenly, despite the cool night breeze, she feels hot inside, as if her shirt’s on fire. “He’s not one to leave anything to chance.”

She can feel the sweat pooling beneath her clothes. “Don’t worry, I’m not interested,” she gasps, hoping if she says it out aloud it’ll come true. 

“I know.” This time, he actually does advance. “But do you think you can resist it if I tried to woo you, my lady?”

She slips out of his gaze, moves a few paces away, turns her back to him. She knows she’s gone red in the face and she doesn’t want him to glimpse it. “You and I both know it won’t work, Ser Ja—”

Her mind stops working when she can sense him right behind her. He isn’t touching her, no—but the way he breathes down her is more than enough to send a tingle down her back, one that begins at the nape of her neck, travels all the way down until it makes it to the very end of her back. “I could really charm you if I wanted to.” 

“I don’t—” Again she’s drawn to a pause when his fingers brush hers then part company with them. “I don’t think so—”

“You’re just underestimating me,” he whispers, and she can catch a whiff of his old cocky self-assurance. 

“You’re just over-confident,” she parries, holding her guard, hoping that’ll break the enchantment he’s ensnared her with.

“Am I?” She can feel him get even closer, can feel his chest _almost_ touching her back. “I’m sure if I try hard enough—” He leaves it at that, but her head’s swarming with the unsaid, of what might be should he decide to— 

_You’re only doing this to make this easier on us—yourself. A rescue attempt is all this is, to save a couple of lives, your brother’s, Sansa’s… mine._

And sure enough, this wakes her up from what could’ve been a blissful dream, breaks the spell, and she gets away, putting good distance between them.

“Time to call it a night, Ser Jaime.” 

Brienne rushes off to the bedroll, averting her eyes, hiding from him what his sudden presence in her life is putting her through. This marriage might mean a lifetime with him. His name would be hers, his body, even, for heirs, his father would insist on, but _he_ could never become hers, his heart, his soul belonging to the one he can never recover from.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They try to keep a distance, to keep things formal, but can they?

“My apologies,” Jaime murmurs, following her after what feels like hours and seating himself in the opposite corner of the bedroll. “I just wanted to help with your armour.”

“And I thank you for that,” Brienne replies in a dignified lady-like tone. 

She takes her place on the bed, hopes this will be forgotten when this night rolls into a new day. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him struggle with his shirt, swearing occasionally when it refuses to do his bidding. When she isn’t looking, she can feel his irregular breathing, the heavy sigh, he lets out when he huddles away in his half. She can’t help but try and read what he doesn’t tell her. Is he regretting getting this close to her? Is that why he’s feeling sorry? She recalls his last apology in Harrenhal—Jaime Lannister isn’t one to express his regret unless he truly feels so, unless, deep down, he’s—

 _The very proximity to me, the thought of touching me, he finds repulsive like all other men. The sight of my body disgusts him, like he has pointed out about a million times. Perhaps, he’s trying to try hard and accept his fate, to look at me in a different light, but cannot bring himself to—_

Would he even bed her when— _if_ they’re wed? Would he be able to fulfil his word to Lord Tywin? Or is his love for his sister powerful enough to keep him away, to prevent him from living his life as the heir and lord of Casterly Rock? 

Unwilling to let that thought swamp her mind and stamp on her, she lies down. Sleep, her father used to say, is a journey that calms the restless and sometimes, with a new dawn, even brings about unexpected solutions to seemingly insurmountable problems the previous night. Perhaps when she’s up in the morning, this sinking feeling might go away. Perhaps, he might find another way to save his brother and wouldn’t be compelled into this.

 _Or perhaps, Cersei might slip out of his heart to make room for another,_ says a small flicker of light within her, an overly optimistic spark that thinks it can rise to be an unrealistically raging fire. _Perhaps, as the years go by, he might fall in love with—_

 _Perhaps, in another life,_ she puts an end to it right there, hoping that might shut down her racing thoughts, that wildly chirpy corner of her that’s trying to defy reason and her fate.

As the night ticks on, she discovers that her father, in his enthusiastic praise of sleep, had forgotten it graces only a fortunate few.

It is like life has come to a standstill—him in his corner, facing away from her, and her in hers, eyes wide open, ears overly sensitive to the slightest bit of noise in the world outside. 

Occasionally—no, more often than that, more than once or twice every few minutes, she allows herself a twist of her head, steals a furtive glance at him. But he is as one ought to be in sleep, unmoved and breathing steadily, lost to her in a peaceful slumber. A remarkable feat, indeed, it is, for a man to forget his cares when he lies down for the day, and blessed Jaime is, in that respect.

And blessed is Cersei to be enveloped by the undying affection of a man like him—

 _Cersei._ There she is, making a grand entrance into her thoughts again.

Brienne tries to brush it away, switches sides hoping that might help. But the pretty face creeps into her head, ruffles her from within, provoking her into an unfair comparison, showing her the difference between Jaime’s choice and compulsion. The name is a poison, every time her mind brings it up, it is hell. Every time she visits what marriage to this man might be like, she’s taken back to what an ordeal it must be for him. Cersei, and no more, had been his journey’s purpose once, he was ready to kill for her, just to return to her. 

But then, what good would come from brooding about it tonight?

 _At least he doesn’t snore. That’ll be one headache less if I do marry him,_ she consoles herself, and shutting her eyes tightly, she wills herself to drift away, to go someplace her feelings for Jaime won’t follow.

+++++

With morning comes a new day, but the thoughts Brienne had been trying to get away from last night, stay firmly put, refusing to let go, clinging to her like a leech.

With the new day, of course, comes a different side of Jaime. None of yesterday’s enthusiasm, she can see. There is a subdued edge to him that’s never been there before. He speaks to her only when spoken to, only when necessary. _Regret following his advances last night_ , she concludes, this change in his behavior pinching her heart. She’s been right all along, her assessment of his mental state, painfully accurate. 

And for the first time in her life, she hates being right about something.

“You appear to be quite fond of the sword.”

These are his first words to her after hours, after waking up next to her pretending she doesn’t exist. Her nerves picking up, she straightens, but remains a figure of composure, or seemingly so. She can’t let him know something—a lot of _somethings_ are amiss are deep down within her. 

“Who wouldn’t be?” she answers, thinking before uttering every word. “Only a few are privileged to be graced with a priceless gift like this, ser.”

He sits down on the boulder beside her. Head bent, eyes fixed on the blade she’s polishing, she still refuses to look up, despite the sensation of his gaze boring into her. “Are _you_ fond of it, my lady?”

She continues to wipe it. “A weapon fit for knights—it’s an honour wielding a blade like this.”

“You will be one, too.” 

She stops working on it and looks up, the unexpected words, the sincerity in his voice coaxing her out of herself to look into his eyes. “A knight?”

He nods. “Maybe, one day.” He smiles—not the mocking one he once had for her, but one of belief in her, reminding of the quiet confidence with which he bestowed his prized possession upon her. “You have all it takes, Brienne.”

“I—” she doesn’t know what to say, is unsure how to accept this praise “—this is a magnificent weapon, indeed,” she finishes, suppressing all of what’s surging up her chest. “I do hope I do it justice because I—”

“Oh, she loves the sword so much, Ser Jaime, that she spends more time with it than with me.”

Podrick, beaming his heart out at them, approaches, accompanied by Bronn who, as usual, appears to have something sly cooking in his head, the wicked smirk that’s probably a permanent characteristic of his mouth, greeting them.

“And the armour, too, as I can see,” Bronn observes, and the two of them join them for their meal. “Do you ever take it off, my lady?”

Brienne glares at him. “Of course, I do—” 

“—only at nights,” Pod butts in, splitting the food into four portions. “I usually help her out with it—”

“—but you were with me last night, Podrick, whereas—” Bronn narrows his eyes, tilts his head to see beyond what is between her and Jaime. “What else are you fond of, my lady?” His mirthful eyes shift to Jaime. “The giver of these gifts, perhaps?”

When it’s certain it has no effect on Bronn, she diverts her glare to Pod who promptly averts his eyes and goes about what he’s doing. As for Jaime, she knows better than to spy on his reaction, to seek out what’s going on in his mind.

  
  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
  
  


Days pass. And the nights follow, every one of which is the same as the one it has left behind.

Be it an inn or a tent in the wilderness, while they share a roof and a bed, for Jaime, it feels as though an invisible wall stands between them—a barrier she’d erected when she shrunk away from his closeness on their first night together. He does help her with her armour, though, but that’s only because Pod decides to mysteriously disappear whenever it is time for her to retire. 

Touching her, yet, not doing so—it is an effort that tells on him for hours after they’re done with it. The way she shivers away into a pod when a finger lingers a second longer or strays where it isn’t supposed to tread—it drives him mad.

Every minute and the one after has been agony, purely that, nothing but that.

Every night since then has been a sleepless ordeal, endless hours of closing his eyes and pretending he’s at peace. How it pains him to be mere feet away, yet, separated by miles from her! Everytime he turns to look at her, he itches to gather her in his arms, to kiss those warm full lips, to pin her down and make sweet love to her. Every night, his mind takes a trip along a road he’s never going to be on, one that’s paved with her and only her, one, when it leaves him alone and tosses him back to his senses, hurt so badly that he wonders if he’ll ever recover.

This morning again, he props himself up on his elbow and watches—gazes at her as her body rises and falls to a gentle rhythm, admiring her from a distance as he’s destined to for the next few days to come. And it kills him to see her in bed, just within reach, yet unattainable. A dismissive, ‘ _n_ _ot interested’,_ she waved him away with, just like he’d consoled her in that fateful bath he’d shared with her. 

_Not interested,_ he tries to tell himself day after day and night after night, but his heart calls him out on the lie, his body refuses to comply.

Like every day, when he cannot take it anymore, he leaves the bed, tries to get over her all over again.

Like every day, when she joins him outside, he pretends all is well, that he’s enjoyed a dreamless sleep.

“Lady Sansa has been spotted at the Eyrie,” Bronn informs them at breakfast. “That’s where we should be heading to.”

Brienne pauses from her drink, takes a deep breath. “How do you know?” 

“I have sources,” Bronn replies evasively.

“In the middle of nowhere?” she continues to interrogate.

Bronn merely shrugs. “They have ways of reaching me.”

She takes another sip from her skin, but her eyes never leave him, and Jaime can read the suspicion in her mind, the storm within as she assesses her chances. “We head there, then,” she announces, at last, and on they get, bustling about to pack, to make preparations to leave.

As has been the routine with them, they begin the day’s ride—Bronn riding ahead with Podrick as soon as he’s tired of enjoying his own teasing remarks, leaving him behind with Brienne and the long hours of silence that are to follow. 

“I have a question for you,” he begins when he cannot bear the quiet anymore.

She slows down a bit, turns to meet his eyes.

“If Sansa was not your responsibility,” he goes on, assuming it’s a yes, “if the Lannisters weren’t your enemy—if things had unfolded more favourably between us, would you have married me out of your own will?”

She thinks for a moment. “Would you have approached my father with an alliance if things had been different between us?”

Fair point. He’s almost on the brink of conceding, but flips, instead, carries on, “Would you have agreed had my father written to Lord Selwyn for your hand?”

“If Lord Tywin had not coerced you, would you have come after me?” she dodges his stroke instead of speaking out her mind.

Jaime stops at that, recalls Cersei’s cold-blooded demand, knowing full well he wouldn’t have budged away from her had it not been for an extreme shove into the darkness like that. Or would he have, one day, given up realizing there’s no more that fire within him, burning for his sister. Would he have accepted that it now burns for someone else, that differences are all that remain between him and the twin he’d loved more than his life? 

“You aren’t my enemy,” she says softly after they’ve progressed a few paces.

“My father did coerce me,” he huffs away in response, “but I have no regrets paying heed to him.”

“Why me?” She questions him with his eyes too. “Why did he think you and I would make a good match?”

_Because he thinks I love you—no, he knows—_

“It’s complicated,” he says, cutting himself off. Knowing he can’t keep it from her any longer, he begins to narrate his chilling conversation with Cersei, revealing how he’s supposed to be her assassin, not her saviour. “The queen doesn’t trust me anymore,” he sighs, “and she’s certain to send men after me, her very own to make sure I don’t leave the deed undone. My father—”

“You came here at risk to your life, too,” she murmurs, so feebly that he can barely hear her. “You shouldn’t be here, Ser Jaime—” panic rises in her voice, he can see her breathing slip into a fit or urgency “—should your sister get wind of it—”

“Father will take care of that,” he assures, though he isn’t sure how he’s going to take care of his father’s wrath once Brienne is safely out of his reach. “Trust me, I’m his precious son and heir,” he goes on further, noting the stiffness, the tension in her jaw. “He won’t let me come to any harm.”

The sound of the wind, the hooves of their horses, the chirping birds and a beast here and there take over again as they resume in silence. Once again, he’s back in the cave of loneliness despite being with the company of his choice. And once more, he stresses his mind for something to help him start a new thread of conversation. Him trying to pull words out of her mouth—it is like their early days together and not like it at the same time. His eagerness to know more about her is still the same, maybe more now, as is her reluctance, her tendency to measure the pearls that leave her lips. 

But gone is his sarcasm, the urge to get under her skin. And gone is her itch to snap at him at the slightest provocation.

This new _something_ between them—Jaime can feel it branching out to every corner of him, seeking out every corner of his heart as he reaches out to the parchment he’s been holding close to himself.

“This letter you wrote—” he pulls it out, every word of it, every unfinished sentence floating to the fore of his mind “— a lot of what you tried to write is hanging in the air.” 

Her fingers loosening around the reins, she waits for him to go on.

“Why leave a lot in it unsaid?” 

She doesn’t answer, but glances up, into his eyes, and Jaime wishes for time to come to a halt, for everything to stall, but this moment itself. 

“You told me you don’t expect me to accept your hand,” she says, changing the subject. “If we don’t end up in a sept together, what happens at the end of this road?”

“I leave you someplace safe, Essos, maybe—” his heart heavy at her decision, Jaime feels the weight of it almost strangling his words before they can make it to her “—where neither my father nor sister can reach you.” 

Her large eyes fill with concern. “What happens to Lord Tyrion?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“You and I—” she blinks more than necessary “—this marriage is the only thing standing between your sister and your brother’s neck?”

“I’ll think of something, Brienne—”

“What if I give you my consent to marry you?” She’s hit him with it before he can brace himself. “I will be your wife, Ser Jaime—”

“Think about it,” he warns, fully aware that it is not a whole-hearted consent but an act of compassion and gratitude. 

She nods. Just once. “When I have my mind set on something, I rarely budge.”

He wants to look forward to it, wants to believe this is a union sealed by love. And if pretending it is is going to help, then why not? _Love follows marriage_ , his father often told him. If it takes him a lifetime to woo her, to worm his way into her heart, so be it. “The same old stubborn wench, aren’t you?” he teases, his burden lightening to a large extent.

“The same old,” she agrees, lips twitching in the beginning of a smile.

“I can be a difficult man to live with,” he continues playfully. 

“As if I don’t know about that. I’ve lived with you for almost a year, Ser Jaime.”

“Ah, but that doesn’t match up to _living_ with me, wench.”

They ride on, arguing, sparring away merrily with words, this time, and Jaime, as he watches her, knows he’s going to marry her for just one reason.

Not because of Cersei. Not to save Tyrion’s life. Not because his father insists.

+++++ 

“You can’t keep doing this for me every night,” she mildly objects when has finished dismantling her armour. “Tomorrow onwards, Podrick can resume—”

“Pod isn’t going to do it for you when we’re married,” Jaime points out, his heart and something more leaping up at the prospect of everything else he’d be taking off her after marriage. “Unless—” he’s bitten by an urgency to settle this lingering doubt once and for all “—you can’t stand it if I touch you—”

“I didn’t mean that,” she hurriedly stops him.

“Then—” He leans closer, searches her eyes for signs against him, but finding none, looks for hints to explain her hesitation. “Are you worried you might get used to me?”

“That isn’t what I meant, either,” she retorts, and as she does every night, slips away to prepare herself for the night.

Only this time, instead of retiring to his corner, he goes after her, her stiffness giving rise to another doubt in his mind. “Tell me honestly, wench—” he sits down on the bedroll by her side “—did you consent to this because you think you owe me a debt for saving you from that bear?”

Brienne mulls over his question. “I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do.”

“You owe me nothing, my lady,” he firmly declares, wanting to leave it unclear no more. “It is, infact, I who—”

“Let’s not talk about debts anymore,” she gently steers him away from it. “You've tried to do the right thing when it came to your decisions. Now I’m doing the same.”

“But marriage is not just an exchange of a few words in a sept,” Jaime pushes on, sensing for her, that is what it will be. “I don’t want you to—”

“Oh, I’ve dreamed of being wed more often than you would believe,” she admits, taking him by surprise, a rare shy smile taking birth on her lips. “Of handsome princes who’ve swept me off my feet.” The smile falters as she drops her gaze. “Only to be woken up each time and reminded it is all a long-winded fantasy.”

He tries to read her mind and what it leads him to leaves him deflated. “Renly, huh?”

She prods at the corners of the bedspread. And that is good enough an affirmation for him. Barging in to take Renly’s place—that’s going to be quite a task for him. 

“Our fathers will want their heirs.” Less than whole-hearted involvement in a marriage often made this a chore for women. “If you decide to marry me, would you be averse to it?”

Her chest heaves, then relaxes. “Our fathers will get their heirs.”

Jaime’s heart begins to beat faster, and with it, throbs the _something else_ that has been incessantly reminding him of its distress for a while _._ “And you do know what it takes for that?”

“Of course.” Her voice dips lower than normal. “I might be a maiden but I’m not naive.”

A lifetime, if it would take, for him to oust Renly from his smug position, now is when he’d have to start. A rush of everything he’s had piling up within him tipping him over, Jaime suddenly takes her hand, kisses her knuckles. “It takes a lot more than this, wench.”

“I—” her eyelashes flutter away like they’re caught in a storm, but she doesn’t pull away “—I know.”

He’s never felt like this before, never felt this much need for anyone. He takes to kissing her fingers, one by one, slowly, gently, then with the desire in him bursting to be free, he takes to her palm, then her wrist, aching to feel her pulse within him. “More than even this,” he goes on, hoarse and needy.

He lingers there, his lips pressed to her veins until he can feel her whisper, “Jaime—”

“So it’s Jaime now?” He edges closer, looks deep into those eyes, tries to plant himself in them. “My lady—”

“My apologies.” She returns to her proper posture, but still doesn't swat away his hand. “I didn’t mean to, Ser—”

“Jaime’s just fine,” he corrects her, the way she said it, music to his ears. “You can’t keep calling me _ser_ after we’re married, can you—”

A faint rustling outside alerts him back to reality, tells him they aren’t in their bed chambers. Blushing, Brienne draws her hand away. “Intruders, perhaps.”

“Let me,” he offers, then leaves her side to find out, cursing whoever chose this moment to spy on them. 

Half expecting it to be the man his father sent to watch over him, he sets out to survey their surroundings, circling their tent, searching.

“Must have been an animal,” he reports, going back inside when he ends up with nothing but darkness outside and disappointment within. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get closer, but not close enough, yet.

_The world can turn upside down in the matter of a moment_ , she’s heard the wise ones often say, and often, she used to ponder whether this was a mere throwaway streak of wisdom, a stretched exaggeration.

Tonight, however, when a burst of heated kisses abandoned her for tension and anticipation, she knew this was no mere quote in the air. While _upside down_ would be too far to go, the unexpected intervention did hurl their night from the path it was heading along to someplace unknown. When Jaime had broken the spell and left her side, when the magic he’d conjured out of thin air had met an abrupt death, Brienne was left wondering if it was a rude message from the gods, a cruel reminder that she wasn’t destined for love or happiness.

She has half a mind to follow, to aid him if he’s about to step into potential trouble, but just as she’s on her way out, to her utmost relief, she can see him turn around the corner of the tent and approach the entrance. When he walks in again and announces there’s no threat, when, despite his discovery, he stands back in thought for a moment like he’s contemplating his next move, she feels as if a tonne-heavy stone has been shoved down her throat, pinning her heart down as her mind reads the unspoken on his face. Doused away by this untimely intervention, the spark of romance in his eyes no longer remains, and claiming its place is—a shadow of anxiety?

“We ought to be alert, keep a watch for the rest of the night,” he voices whatever is eating into him as he pats down his side of the bed. “We cannot let our guard down. One of us has to be up first and—”

“You said it’s just an animal.”

“That was my first assumption, yes.” His thoughts are far away, his mind not with her. “And it could be, I’m probably overthinking it. But then, it could be anything—wild beasts, rapists, assassins.” His jaw set, alertness flickering in his eyes, he’s drawn into the armour of the renowned commander he’s known to be, the skilled strategist, one who’d take no risks when it came to protecting his kin. “I can’t afford to take a chance.”

“I’ll take first watch,” she volunteers, for sleep is a companion who has betrayed her yet again tonight.

“I can do it,” he chivalrously puts her down. “I’m not sleepy.”

“Nor am I.”

But he ignores her, sits down in his corner, his posture vigilant, his eyes, fixed on the dark slit of the entrance. Keen to do her bit, to bid goodbye to sleeplessness and unsavoury thoughts, she follows suit, her corner, her kingdom, silence their blanket for the many hours until dawn.

The night passes, and while there appears to be no sign of their unknown visitor returning, thoughts—the ones she’d been brooding about night and day, come back to question her decision, to prod her if she’s chosen the right path. 

_Yes,_ says her heart, everytime the doubtful part of her tries to challenge it. Loudly. Clearly. _This is the right thing to do._

But is that all there is to this? The right thing to do? For him, at least, it cannot be any more. Gulping down a sigh, she takes a look at the handsome face, those eyes lost in a world known only to him. Only minutes back, they’d been—they could’ve been— 

Does he regret the little moment they’d shared prior to the disappointing interruption? When he’d kissed her hand like that, she’d almost thought that he—

_No. It can’t be. It’ll always be Cersei even if I’m his wife._

“You look weary,” he mis-observes her confusion and her attempt to read his emotions. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

Sleep, she knows, is out of the question, but if lying down would keep her eyes off him and her thoughts away from what this night could’ve been had it not been for their invisible intruder, that’s the best she can do.

The night inches further and further into its depth. Seconds turn into minutes—countless, there seem to be.

“Asleep?” he calls out after what feels like years of staring into darkness and nothing.

She turns to his side. “Mmhmm.”

He glances down at her. “I’ve been trying to divert myself, been thinking about what life might be like when we’re done with this.”

“A compromise?” she prompts, for that is what this will be for him. “Does it bother you that—” _you won’t be with your sister anymore_ , she almost asks, but holds back. “Does it bother you that you’re being forced out of your Kingsguard vows?”

Lost in thought, Jaime looks away, shakes his head. “Not that. I’ve reconciled to that.”

She props herself on her elbow. “Then what’s troubling you?”

He doesn’t speak, just exhales heavily. Something’s bothering him, something he isn’t willing to open up to her about. “A future wife is supposed to be one you can share your burdens with,” she nudges him, keen to lighten his chest, to shift to her shoulders a part of the weight he’s carrying. “If it’s the queen’s men you fear,” she draws his attention to the unknown _sound_ sometime back. “If you feel one of them is spying on us, trying to lay a trap for me—” 

“It isn’t that.”

The edge in his voice tells him he’s on the verge of something. She waits, gives him time—time is something they’ll have in abundance once they’ve exchanged vows. That might be all he might be able to spare for her. 

“Children—I’ve just been thinking—” his eyes are back on her “—have you ever given a thought to what ours might look like, wench?”

Her heart sank down to her belly when she realized her homeliness would ruin the unblemished Lannister line which has, for generations, boasted of handsome golden-haired lions and lionesses. “Ugly like me,” she dully supplies, “and if they end up like that—” 

“You’re not ugly—at least, I don’t think so anymore.” He shuffles closer, something akin to guilt in his eyes. “Would you ever forgive me for all that I have said to you?” He reaches out to touch her fingertips with his. “I was a different man then, Brienne.”

 _Not ugly—_ this new _him_ not as snarky as his former self, he’s only saying this to mollify her. Even then, she wants to encourage him, to see how far this takes them. “Do go on,” she says, her fingers fluttering away close to his, her heart soaring somewhere high up, near the roof, though she knows this is no more than a friendly joust he’s inviting her to, a challenge to keep this up with him for as long as she can, a duel of words like it always has been between them. “Tell me more about these children you dream of,” she leads him on, eager to hear him out.

“Blue eyes, just like yours,” he lapses into wishful thinking, and _now_ she’s definitely certain he’s only engaging with her to pass away a tedious night.

Even this doesn’t deter her from wanting to make it till the end of this. “And?”

“Strength to put down the most formidable opponent,” he goes on, continuing to describe a babe that is yet to be conceived. “And a will of iron—just like yours, unbent by none, not even the most powerful. Unshakable, they must be, to be able to stand by what they think is right.”

“Stubborn, you mean?” Brienne teases, beginning to enjoy this despite her reservations.

“You’re putting words into my mouth.” He makes a face, his forehead creases into an adorable crumple of lines. “I didn’t call you ugly tonight, nor did I—”

“Oh, but _stubborn_ is another name you have for me,” she cuts across, hurling another stroke past his attempt to defend himself. “Even today, did you not—”

“My favourite name for you happens to be _wench_ , wench,” he gives her back in the same vein. And that quietens her down. He abandons his corner to lie down by her side. “I quite enjoy calling you that but if you’d rather prefer _my love_ or _sweetling_ after we’re married—”

“Don’t you dare call me either of those.” 

She knows he’s only joking, that sweet words to pass the time, these are, and nothing else, but deep down, she wants to be _his love, his sweetling._ And she wants him to acknowledge that about a hundred times a day. She wants to be the wife he can cuddle up to every night, a source of soothing comfort when he needs someone to just touch, to feel, to stay close to after a difficult day. 

“Not even wench?”

She wants for this man to hold her, to comfort her, to tell her all will be well on the days she feels life’s going nowhere and her future is hopeless. “Not even wench.”

“I wish for them to be born with your skills when it comes to wielding a sword,” he carries on, thinking aloud.

“Even if it is a girl?”

“Especially if it’s a girl,” he emphasises, his chest swelling with longing. “Every morning you’d make sure they woke up in time, take them all—”

“All?” She’s suddenly overwhelmed by a vision of them surrounded by a horde of golden-haired, blue-eyed handsome children. “How many do you exactly foresee—”

“Seven,” he grandly declares, sending a bolt of _something_ to the pit of her stomach. 

“ _Seven?_ ” she gasps, the prospect of it setting off a million tiny sparks within her. “That would mean we’d have to start on them right—”

“—on our wedding night,” he reads her mind, leaving her blushing, looking forward. “And for that—” He inhales deeply, his brows knit together in thoughts she can’t read. “For that, we’d have to—” 

“Oh no—I didn’t mean it like that,” she cuts him, red-faced, as the implication of her flippant statement hits her.

But he seems determined to pick up that thread and tease her till death. “How about we get married right away?” His mouth curves in a charming smile. “Tomorrow, as soon as the new day breaks, if it suits you, my lady. Bronn will only be too happy to find us a sept.” 

_Yes,_ screams her heart, but knowing this is no more than a part of this lively imagination, she contains it on time, and managing a disarming smile to dodge his, she turns the other way and drifts off with a conclusive, “I think I ought to get some sleep now.” 

+++++

_“He’s my husband,” she cries, asserting her rights, bringing forth the true meaning of their vows._

_“He’s my lover,” Cersei hisses back with spite, with far more conviction than Brienne can muster. “He might be yours in the eyes of the sept and the gods like I once belonged to my husband. When has any of this ever been able to keep us apart? We are born together,” she says, turning to her brother, “and we will die together.”_

_Brienne has no words but a silent plea for her husband. “It’s her or me. Choose,” she implores, “and put an end to this—”_

“Brienne?”

“I know you don’t—”

She wakes up to a gentle hand on her forehead and concerned green eyes trying to rescue her from whatever she’s suffering from. “Whatever it was, it was just a dream,” he pacifies her in a soothing voice she’s never heard before.

Dawn is almost upon them and all that surrounds her is Jaime—no Cersei, no battle for her rights, no queen nor a lover out to snatch him away from her. “Just a dream,” she mutters, nodding feverishly, pushing away the blanket and getting up, hoping it doesn’t come to more than that. 

She knows not to thrive too much on that faint strand of light, yet, isn’t that the only glowing flame in this union to come? 

That one day he might— 

She ambles across the tent to fetch her saddlebag. “Is it still bothering you?” he asks, worried eyes following her around. He gets up, clumsily feels around for the shirt he’s discarded by his bedside during the night. “If you want to talk about it—”

She shakes her head, makes for the exit, when he calls out again. “Did someone hurt you, Brienne?” Still concern-stricken, he rushes to her side. “At Harrenhal—did Locke and his men—are these nightmares from—”

“No,” she hurriedly shoves away his inquiry, and grabbing her bag, she storms out of the tent. Time is what she needs, to take in what almost happened last night, to assess properly what she’s written herself into, what lies in store for her.

A few minutes to herself would help get some of the weight off her chest, she hopes, as she strides towards the emerging sun. A bath and some clean clothes, a chance to cleanse her mind of doubts, of questions, of the ifs and buts that have been gnawing at her since she sealed away her life-changing decision with a stamp of her usual firmness—or _stubbornness_ , as Jaime would choose to put it. 

_One day he might get over her and look at me like a man would his lover,_ she tells the gentle morning breeze and the little creatures of the dawn tittering around her, seeking their concurrence as she strips down to nothing and steps into the stream. 

_One day..._

She begins washing herself, rubbing her arm. 

_Maybe..._

She scrubs harder, as if that would wash away her confusion, but her mind rushes back to another time, another bath. 

_Not so hard, you’ll scrub the skin off…_

She can almost hear him say it again, the voice devoid only, of the cockiness he has sported once. She goes about it gently, and a vivid image of him rising out of the steam—half a god and half a corpse—more of a god really, and a handsome indestructible prince, emerges in her head, ready to haunt her. Oh, what does he know of what he’d done to her in that strange encounter? Would she ever be able to tell him how deeply he’d touched her then, when he’d returned to risk his neck for hers, when he’d gladly given her his precious possession? What it was, she’d not known until much later, not even when Cersei had peeped into her heart, challenging her to accept, daring her to refute.

 _Not interested,_ he’d categorically declared that day, yet, last night felt like there was a part of him deep down that had forgotten about the forbidden love he could never have. It felt like their wedding night had arrived early—

The hairs on her neck stand up as she delves deeper into what could’ve been last night, and when she closes her eyes and touches herself, everything around—sounds of the morning birds singing all around her, the beautiful golden dawn unfolding upon her—all of it diminishes into nothing, her senses converging into just one aching imagination.

_Him._

Unbidden, her fingers tweak and pluck at her nipples, wishing he were down here this moment, this instant, touching her, satisfying her. _Jaime,_ she whimpers, biting her lip, recalling how he’d offered to overpower her, fling her down, tear off her clothes. His mouth on hers, stealing hungry kisses, his fingers all over, his hard chest crushing her soft breasts, his cock, pushing gently into her throbbing depths, then deeper and deeper and deeper... 

_Of course, he’s strong enough._ She pinches, rolls her nipples between her thumb and forefinger. Those wandering fingers, she pictures to be his, as they drift down her torso, dancing away gently, playing with her body until they’re soaked—in the cool water she’s submerged in, in the hot wetness of her arousal. She presses hard, rubs up and down the bud that’s brought her pleasure countless times—only this time, she yearns for it to be his hand instead of Renly’s, instead of an unknown someone she could never have.

 _Jaime,_ she moans again, her insides fluttering as her mind bursts into a vivid spread of images she cannot contain. The sun’s not fully out yet, but she’s burning all over, blistering heat engulfing her from all directions as she strokes herself. She wants this to be his mouth, wants him to eat her out, wants him to take her through this pleasure and pain. From collarbone to breasts, from belly to cunt, she can feel him everywhere—on her skin and within, reaching out to every corner of her, in her body, in her mind. Such desire, hard and fiery, she’s never felt for anyone before, she’s never burned like this for anyone before. 

The writhing woman in her craving his touch, gasping away at this torture, she wants the flames to rise higher, to lick her away, to consume her.

When she shudders, when she lets go, it is with yet another hoarse explosion of his name on her lips. And when the world around her shapes back into place, she holds still, stays afloat for a while. This, and more, could be hers for the rest of her life. Jaime would be hers, but would he, really?

_One day…_

This faint flicker of hope sparking afresh in her, she climbs out, but when she spots him standing there, waiting for her to come aboard, her leg gives way on a slippery rock. 

“Careful,” he says, grasping her arm to support her as she scrambles around for a towel to cover her modesty. That the boulder housing her clothes now wears his shirt too, sends her mind flipping back to the time he’d unabashedly disrobed in front of her. “If you’d told me you were heading out for a bath, I’d have joined you.” His eyes crinkle in merriment. “For old times sake.” He gestures at his discarded shirt. “See, I’m almost ready. If only you had lingered down there a little longer—” 

“You—” she can feel a flush creep up her neck when she recalls her solitary game of pleasure underwater “—how long have you been watching?”

“I don’t have a habit of watching women bathe,” he lightly chastises her, and she can see he’s stung by her accusation. “I just arrived. And I ventured out to look for you because you left without a word of your whereabouts,” he rattles off in a tone of complaint. “You were gone too long, I was worried—” He follows her gaze to his bare chest. “Since I happened to come all the way, I thought I’d indulge, get cleaner, myself—” 

“I’ll head back then.” She wishes that’ll stop her staring at him, stop her body from giving away too much. “You can come when you’ve finished.” 

His gaze trickles down to her lips, her neck, and before he can go any further, she turns away immediately, her body ablaze again. “You know hiding yourself isn’t going to work when we’re married,” he teases, a half-grin accompanying his playful threat.

Yes, it’s barely even working now. She knows she’s going to crumble if he comes any closer. But he does, and doomed, she is, and in a mad scramble, she aims to keep away from him and tries to work her way into her shirt.

“Let me,” he offers, taking charge of the shirt, and it doesn’t occur to her to ward him off. 

With shaking fingers she loosens the knot on the towel and lets it drop. With a shiver down her spine that has nothing to do with the breeze kissing her freshly-bathed skin, she lets him have his way, lets him get one sleeve in whilst she works her arm into the other.

“This—” He stops, stops her with a finger tracing the outline of a once-bruise when she’s about to pull on the garment. “Who gave you this?” 

“The Hound,” she mumbles, struggling to steady her shaking legs.

“For days, we’ve been together, yet you never mentioned you fought Clegane.” He draws closer. Even over the chirping birds around them, she can hear him breathe, feel the soft warmth of it draw her into a second bath. “Tell me you bettered him, wench,” he huffs into her moist skin. “Tell me you knocked the hell out of him.”

“I did.” She can feel the tingling between her thighs again. “I beat him but I—”

“I’m mighty impressed, my lady,” he growls, his voice bringing every nerve beneath her skin to life. “Remember our fight?” She can feel him inch closer, can feel his chest hair bristle against her smooth back. “You and I—the way you got down to me, I had my apprehensions from the second our swords met.” His hand is off her, but he remains where he is, makes no attempt to clothe her. “What a duel it was! When Locke and his men arrived, they assumed we—” he trails away, but doesn’t budge, and she wants to keep standing there forever, wants him to take her right away, right where they are, to rid her of this pain this—

_He sees Cersei in me. I am just a compromise._

She whirls around, hugs the shirt to her bosom. “I’ll—” _manage the rest myself_ , she means to say, but before that, her eyes drop to the numerous scars on his chest. Most of them she remembers are wounds she’s bathed away the blood from before, but these many bruises, she had not counted then. 

“This—” She places a careful fingertip over one below his collarbone, her finger rising and falling to the beat of his heart. She can’t ask him any further, she almost knows what it is, as does she realize what the rest of them are.

He draws in a laboured breath, his eyes move to the trail of her finger. “Locke.” 

Her stomach does a tumble at the vivid memories of the tumultuous times they’ve been through together, and she cannot stop herself, cannot hold back from surveying all that he’s borne for her sake. “And this—” Her other hand goes to one below his navel, the thin line that’s accompanying the streak of hair disappearing into his breeches.

His gaze rises, she can feel the intensity of it on her. “Locke again.”

“You took these for me,” she whispers, unable to take her eyes off them, her hand off him, her mind of all that he’s endured for her.

“And I’d do it all again, my lady,” Jaime whispers back, the way he says it inviting her to look into his eyes. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey goes on... and they get closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. I'm back (kind of)

When they make it back to the camp, Jaime feels like he’s being put through his longest walk ever—this one surpassing, even, the heavily loaded silence between them during their endless trip out of her captors’ lair and towards the safe haven out of Harrenhal. This time too, like that fateful day, he can’t help his eyes, for they seem to find their way back to her no matter how hard he tries not to look this obviously smitten. 

Maybe, some time off her ruling his head might cool the fire in his loins. Maybe, getting his attention on their journey ahead, their oncoming task, might ease his overworked heart.

Maybe, not constantly attempting to break into her thoughts to try and gauge her true feelings on their _situation_ might help strengthen his patience.

Maybe—

“I dreamed of you.”

He almost trips over a broken branch at the suddenness of this, not anticipating her to fuel this _something_ floating between them—an inexplicable feeling that is neither ice nor fire, solid nor fluid and both tense and relaxing.

“Last night—” she drinks in a deep breath “—when I—” 

His head bursts with a thousand different possibilities of how this dream could’ve unfolded, but recalling how agitated she’d been when he’d soothed away her distress, he slows down, refusing to let himself be carried away with what is merely his fantasy. “A nightmare,” he reflects, dullness pushing aside the heady sensation her touch had induced in him. “You seemed quite disturbed, my lady.” Another jolt hits him at the pit of the stomach. “If the prospect of wedding me is that distressing—”

“I dreamed that your sister—” She stops there, clearly uncomfortable with putting it out. “That she—” she tries to continue, but from the way she pauses again, flicks away a pebble in her path, he can guess the rest.

“I’m yours, Brienne.” A sept, he can see around him, when he tries to reach out to those troubled eyes. An invisible bond he can feel uniting their wrists when he takes her hand, his touch, too, like his eyes and his frugal, yet, heartfelt words, making their best attempt to convince her that he will, forever, be faithful to her, that there will be no one else, not even the woman who once reigned over his heart and bed.

“I will always be yours,” he goes on, letting the emotions swimming within him take the shape of these words before his voice can give way, before his outward calm can crumble. While he might never have her love, might not even be able to declare his for her in plainer form, disguising it in the garb of the vows they’d soon exchange is something he can find solace in.

“Ser Jaime, I—” he can feel her palm moisten with sweat “—well, it was just a dream.” 

He relinquishes custody of her hand and they resume walking. “I hope it’s a better one next time,” he murmurs, drawing out his own, of how she’s been the queen of his nighttime mental wandering for more nights than he can remember. As no more than the sounds of the birds envelop them again, he slips away into a world no one can take away from him. While he might never succeed in winning her affections, his dreams will always be his as will be the hope that she might, someday, look beyond the social obligation they’re about to enter.

And someday, should his fates rain down good fortune upon him, their soon-to-be bond might stretch beyond the sacred vows chanted before the Seven, the essence of those promises tying them together, the knot never to be undone until the Stranger chose to step between them. 

Someday, she and him—they might embark upon a new journey, one that will bring them together, to become one in body, one heart and one soul. Someday, when he lies wrapped around her, undressing a woman might be the softest, sweetest pleasure he’s indulged in. 

Someday, his nights might never be the same again when his kisses and caresses come to life, when the warmth of her naked back pressed into his chest and his leg loosely flung over hers might no longer be just a figment of his mind. When she lets go and sinks into his touch, lets his hand wander from navel to nipples, lets him touch and stroke her all over, lets him suck away her bare neck, he can feel a stir in his breeches. 

And now, oddly, _this_ no longer seems to be just in his mind. 

When he can feel her feel his hardness, when he can sense her need for him, when her ragged breath hits him like a fiery storm, when the way she pushes back against him tells him how badly she wants him deep within her, he knows he’s going to be lost in her again.

When she grinds against him, and he responds, his kisses getting hungrier, his hand pinching, groping her breast, this feels more real than it has ever felt.

When she moans, when he reaches between her legs— 

When he flips her around and pins her down, when he presses his mouth to her soft inviting skin— 

When she explodes with a shiver and a husky cry, when he begins devouring her breasts, trapping a helplessly hard nipple between his teeth— 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he rasps, kissing down her belly, pressing his face between her legs, and when he—

“Ser Jaime?”

He snaps out of it, his face and more of him on fire.

“Is something bothering you?” she asks when she’s secured his attention, brows meeting as she takes in his flushed face.

 _A lot more than something,_ he answers her in his head as he shrugs away her concern.

+++++

When they return to the real world of their camp, it is not just their companions who’re lying in wait for them. 

“Here’s the one you went looking for last night,” Bronn proudly announces his handiwork, pointing to the man bound to the tree. “I caught him lurking around, trying to follow you when you followed her out into the—” He smirks, runs his tongue across his lips. “To wherever it is you chose to find some alone time all this while.”

“We went out for a bath,” Jaime hisses under his breath, the roguish teasing note in the man’s voice reminding his cock again of all that he secretly wished he could do to her.

Bronn looks like he’s been given the best castle in the world. “Ah, a bath.” He gives rest to his sharp tongue for a moment, then goes back to eyeing Jaime curiously. “So does that mean a bath or a _bath_?”

“Why don’t we question your prisoner instead of dwelling on the unnecessary?” Without waiting for an answer, Jaime kneels in front of the stranger. “Talk.”

“I had no choice,” the man admits, “Lord Tywin—”

“—was obviously unsure if I’d keep my word,” Jaime guesses, reminding himself that a Lannister never relies on chance happenings. Certainty is the only thing to be relied on, and his father will do all in his power, cross every bridge he meets and cut down every obstacle that stands in his path to ensure a _certain_ outcome and one that works in his favour.

Bronn joins the interrogation. “You can tell Lord Tywin his son is dying to wed the lady. Look at them—” he pauses to savour his words, to plan his next verbal onslaught as he takes in Brienne’s rumpled clothes and tousled hair. “Can you not see how madly in love they are?”

The man follows his captor’s gaze, answers with a slight tilt of his head. “Let me go,” he pleads with Jaime. “I’m not here to harm you, my lord.”

Bronn’s wicked eyes mellow down into a mature look of keen assessment. “That’s true. I’ve been watching him tail us for days. If harming us was his intent, he could’ve brought in his friends—” he frowns “—you do have company lurking around in hiding, don’t you?”

The man blinks away, neither agreeing nor denying.

“Either way, he’s no more than a nuisance,” Bronn conclusively dismisses him before crouching down to untie him. “We can’t bear the burden of dragging him with us for the rest of our journey.”

“Tell Lord Tywin he has my word, too.” To Jaime’s surprise, Brienne steps forward. “I will wed his son.” The conviction in her declaration sets his heart afloat, but the uncertainty of the emotions behind it brings it back to its place.

 _Someday,_ he tells himself as they set to pack, determined not to let go of the thread of hope that binds his dreams to him.

+++++

“ _Him?_ ” 

Sansa’s cold eyes flit from Brienne to Jaime, perceiving him with more loathing than anyone’s ever had for him. “You came here with _her_ brother and you expect me to believe you’re on my side?”

“Ser Jaime has no hand in your mother’s unfortunate murder,” Brienne reasons, the patience in her voice seeping away with the sweat that begins to dot her forehead. “I trust him more than—”

“I don’t,” Sansa flatly cuts her. “He’s a Lannister.” The icy eyes catch fire. “Like his sister and—”

“He’s not _her_ , he’s only here because—”

“What brings you here, Ser Jaime?” Baelish intervenes, and Jaime can sense a lot whirring in that evil lair his dark mind is. “Is it to fulfil another plot woven by your sister to bring her Sansa’s head? And why is she—” Those probing eyes narrow down on Brienne for a moment before returning to Jaime. “You can do better than play sweet with _her_.” His lips twist in a smile. “I heard tales of you two when you spent nights away from the world’s prying eyes and in each other’s company—ones I had dismissed as wild rumours. But to find out that she is, indeed, your who—”

“Enough,” Jaime roars, drawing his sword. “Another word about her and—”

The fierce proclamation of his intent is forgotten when they’re surrounded, the many _swishes_ of swords being drawn behind them warning them to cut short this fruitless conversation and cut across the knights blocking their way out. 

“Now,” Brienne growls, and together, they charge into their obstruction. Another clang of blades, and they blaze past the men stopping them and outdoors, with Brienne leading them towards their horses.

“There was no need for you to flare up,” she scolds, when they bolt out of there with Baelish’s men in hot pursuit.

“That wily little cunt insulted you. He was about to call you my whore,” Jaime yells back, picking up pace to out-ride their assailants. “You expect me to stand quietly and take it—”

“I’ve been called that before,” she grunts, “so it doesn’t matter—”

“It matters.” When she doesn’t immediately retaliate, it is just the sound of the wind and the thundering of hooves around them, reminding him this isn’t a conversation they’re having in their bedchambers. “To me,” he adds, when the thumping behind them has died down, “and if anyone else dares—” 

“What will you do?” Bronn catches up with them. “Leave them with a bleeding nose like you did with Connington?”

Brienne loosens her hold enough to slow down now that they’re safely out of the reach of their pursuers. “Red Ronnet?” Something shifts in her voice, giving it a distant edge. “Where the hell did you meet him?”

“I happened to run into him at Harrenhal when I took off after you and he—”

“One of my father’s failed attempts,” she dryly summarizes, patting her horse absently. “Whether I run from matrimony or it eludes me, I can’t quite make out anymore, but then—” she edges past them “—does it even matter?”

“Even if I told you that your _intended_ jumped up in your defense when your once-intended had the nerve to insult you in his presence?” Bronn slyly elaborates. “Quite a horrible time, your Ser Jaime gave him, my lady.”

Her back tensing, she comes to a halt.

“That golden hand is not entirely useless,” Bronn tells her with a smirk, then with a look at Pod, slips past her. “Pod and I will go find us a place to make camp for the night.”

The young squire, before he makes himself scarce, turns to speak to Jaime. “She’s not far behind, Ser Jaime,” he proudly announces. “Not long before you joined us, we were caught in a skirmish with one of Locke’s men—and Lady Brienne—” the round face is lit up by a smile “—she took his hand in return for yours.”

“Just as it ought to be,” Bronn calls out from a few feet ahead of them. “Now come along, Pod.”

She fumbles with the reins, but makes no attempt to follow in haste when they’re out of sight. “You can’t pounce on people for calling me names,” she mumbles when he matches step with her. She looks far from annoyed. Flattered, maybe? “Nor should you take it upon yourself to punish those who’ve shunned me in the past.”

“You’re no less,” he chides her in return. “You can’t just stop by to chop off people’s hands—”

“I don’t trust Baelish.” Concern and agitation meet his eyes when she looks him in the eye. “If he has Sansa, not only is Sansa at risk, but he has seen you with me.” She pauses, but only to breathe, and before he can jump in, starts again, “I’ve heard things about him, his loyalty or the lack of it. He’s going to send word to your sister and before long—”

“We’ll deal with him when—”

“You don’t understand,” she stops him, her voice high-pitched and laced with panic. “You and I—this is only ending up with you making more enemies than ever. First your sister who’s after you, and now we’ve handed this man a golden chance—”

“You think Baelish was a friend until now?”

“I just—” Her eyes narrow, her gaze drops to his chest, seeing the unseen remnants of his wounds beneath his garb. “I don’t want you to take any more scars for me.”

_And I’d take a hundred more for you, jump in front of every beast that dares growl at you, take down every cunt that lays a hand on your honour and your life._

“Marriage is not just days of bliss and nights of torrid love-making, wench,” he puts forth his feelings in the best words he can manage. “Nor is it just a pact to please our fathers and further our line.”

The stiffness in her jaw eases. “What is it then?”

“A lifetime of unconditional togetherness with watching each other’s backs.” And a little more, should he get lucky. “You better get used to it, wench, because I’m going to be doing this not just this once or another time after that.”

Little lines take shape at the corners of her eyes. “Because it is the right thing to do?”

“Because—” When he can’t go beyond that, he sighs, ignoring the invisible strings that tug at his heart.

They ride on, no more words to keep them away from their companions, no more arguments to steer them away from their course. By the time twilight bids them goodnight, their tents are up, the fire crackling away merrily, inviting them to sit down by its side and indulge in their last meal for the day.

When they’ve eaten, Bronn and Pod cook up yet another excuse to leave them alone and get away from the vicinity, and Jaime, deciding on a spur to seize this chance, glances up at her, hoping to blurt out his heart, hoping to—

“Watch out!”

By the time he can get up and comprehend what’s going on, she springs to her feet and draws her sword. “Not this time,” she roars, and gritting her teeth, she flings herself at a figure in the dark.

“Brienne—” 

“Not this time,” she commands him, and shoving him out of the way, strikes at the beast that had chosen him for its supper. “You’re staying away this time, Ser Jaime.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Brienne—” 

“I’ve got us covered,” Brienne barks, putting herself between him and the animal. “I can—”

A chilling shriek pierces the air, muffling out her words, and unsheathing his blade, Jaime advances, charging to do his part. A struggle ensues, them against the stray boar, its size against their aim, the strength of its paws, its claws against their blades.

“Fuck,” he curses, when it knocks down his weapon reminding him of their encounter with the bear. The only problem this time—there’s no Steelshanks and his arrow to save their skin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he goes again, picking up his sword. If only he had his right hand, if only Bronn and Pod had not chosen this very moment to refill their water skins— 

“Stay behind me,” Brienne shouts, and before he can step up in defiance to her aid, withdraws from their camp, egging the beast away from him and out of his sight into a gap among some bushes. “Stay where you are, I can take it down.”

“No you can’t, you stupid stubborn woman!” Not something this huge from such close quarters. Not in this dark.

Yelps of pain coat their surroundings, and panic for her safety rising inside him, Jaime rushes after her, but by the time he makes it to the battling pair, the screams have died down and the air is still. Beside the creature lying lifeless in a pool of blood is— 

“Brienne—”

“I’m fine,” she gasps, struggling to her feet. “I—” 

She stumbles, and before she can collapse by her vanquished opponent, he’s there to support her. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, cradling her in his arms and crouching to gently lower her to his lap. 

“Ser Jaime—”

“You’re far from fine,” he says hoarsely as his fingers brush something wet and sticky across her middle. “And you’re not dying like this.” He picks her up, staggers away towards their tents. “Because I’m not going to let you.” 

+++++

When she opens her eyes, Jaime feels the life re-enter his body. His mind is back from its dark wanderings, his soul finally reuniting with him after the bleakness of the last few hours.

“Lie back and rest,” he says, gently restraining her when she makes a weary attempt to sit up. “We don’t want you exerting too much.”

Brienne looks around at the room, puzzled. “Where are we—”

“Back at the inn—”

“But we can’t,” she murmurs feebly. “We’ve lost nearly a day’s travel—”

“Is finding Sansa more important than your life?” he barks, recalling the emotional turmoil he’s been through. “You need the attention of a maester and we’re not leaving until you’re fully well and able to ride again.” 

That leaves her with no argument, but only for a while, only until she glances beneath the sheet sprawled over her naked body. “Who—”

“I did,” he answers the unasked, then pulls down the sheet. “And now it’s time to change your bandage,” he replies again, addressing the flashes of embarrassment on her reddening cheeks. A tremendous effort, it takes him, to keep his eyes from straying, from feasting on the pink teats that have haunted countless dreams, leaving him with countless sleepless nights. “You’d better get used to me, my lady—” he looks up to meet her eyes, instead “—because it’s no good trying to resist your soon-to-be husband.”

Soft resignation, he is met with, and when he’s convinced she won’t fight back, he sets about, unwrapping the blood-stained layers. The deep cut, the pain she’s been through, the copious patches of blood he’d dabbed away, the agony he’s been through while she’s been sleeping—the visions flare up in his head again, and it’s not long before it all brings him back to the one thing that’s been eating him alive since her near-fatal tryst with a beast again. 

“Why did you risk your life for me, Brienne?” he asks, when he can’t keep it to himself anymore. “If this is because of the bear and what Locke did to me—” 

“Marriage,” she cuts him without batting an eyelid. “Is this not what it is?”

His hand numbs over the patch of skin it’s resting on, and he probes her eyes, demanding further explanation.

“A lifetime of unconditional togetherness,” she recounts his words, lips thinning in a tired smile. “And with it comes watching each other’s backs, doesn’t it? You’d better stop complaining, Ser Jaime, because I’d do it all again—”

“If something were to happen to you—”

“You’d have to go through the trouble of finding yourself another bride?” She’s smiling properly now, weakly though, her eyes teasing and mischievous. “Quite a problem, I must say.”

“Not an insurmountable one,” he replies in the same light-hearted vein, pushing aside his worry for the time being as he sets about cleaning the wound. “Although, given you’re so smitten with me, since my job is all done here, charming you, it would be a quite a chore to find someone else, to do the whole wooing—”

“Oh, enough! You never even tried to woo me—”

“—yet, you’ve fallen for me, wench,” he jests, hoping this might miraculously come true one day. 

“Overconfident as always,” she breathes, the blush from her cheeks rushing down the pale column of her neck to her chest when his eyes begin to wander again. “But then, you wouldn’t have to try too hard. Any woman would fall for you.”

Done with dressing and covering her cut, he pulls the sheet back up to her neck. “Any woman?”

She pulls in a breath, but doesn’t look away. “Any woman.”

He bends, inches his face to hers. “So I _did_ successfully woo you, after all.”

She exhales heavily from the strain of talking. “Again, isn’t it a bit too much of you to assume that I—”

“You’re simply resisting me for the sake of it. Admit it, wench.” His fingers itching to get beyond the barrier of the sheet, his lips yearning to bathe hers in his desire, it takes all he has in him to hold back on his urges. “You—”

“Ser Jaime—” He can make out she means to go on, but fatigue takes over and she leaves him hanging with just the whisper of his name, the rest of it open to his speculation.

“Sleep now.” He reaches for her hand as her eyes flutter shut. “And I’ll be right here when you wake up, my lady.”

When he’s certain she has drifted away, Jaime plants a kiss on the sleeping woman’s forehead, and when he lingers to breathe her in, on his lips, at last, are the three little words he’s never spoken out aloud before.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more step closer to what is destined for them :)  
> And this is a big step.

The last few days have been nothing but pure torture—and no, it’s not her injury that’s been her botheration.

Every time he gets closer, every time he touches her, a sigh, Brienne tones it down to, for that would be the only expression to disguise her agony, the real pain deep within cloaked by the one the boar had given her, the only one he can get to know about.

Ever since he’s brought her back to the inn, Jaime has barely left her side, keeping a close watch on her, taking care of her like one would a loved one dear to their heart. Except, with him, she has good enough reason to suspect it is his guilt and the urge to do the right thing that’s driving him to make sure she’s lacking nothing.

Ever since the day she’d jumped in front of a beast for him, he has scarcely spoken, seldom a word more than absolutely necessary—quite the contrast of the man he is. And she doesn’t have to wonder why. Green eyes, often closed to all else and lost in a world of their own, keep away from hers as he busies his way through his newly cultivated daily ritual of feeding her despite her vehement protests that she can tend to herself, cleaning her wound and dressing it, wiping away every drop of sweat that beads her brows, helping her bathe and clothe herself. When done with all this, he’d hover over her bedside, keeping a hawk-like watch on the maester who would, from time to time, arrive to assess her healing. 

Tonight again, fingers, gentler than she’s imagined them to be, tremble whenever they brush against her skin, surprisingly quite often for a man with a flawless grip when it came to wielding a weapon, and more times than she can keep count of, he has faltered, then collected himself. What else is this if not the fear that something might happen to her and he’d be left alone—a survivor undeserving of life while his savior ascends the skies to meet her makers?

This night too, like every other morning and night when he gently pushes the shirt down her shoulders, she knows she’s blushing, burning for this to be more than a helpful hand he’s lending her, more than a warrior tending to his injured companion.

“This—” she starts, desperate to cut through what she’s undergoing “—you don’t have to do all this for me. I’ve recovered enough to undress and get myself to a bath.”

His fingers make it to the bindings on her waist whilst his eyes are still safely tucked away from hers. “Didn’t you take care of me at Harrenhal? You did more than this, if I remember correctly.”

So he is keeping count. She was right all along. This is all there is to his kindness—a favour returned, the fervent need to do the right thing, compassion towards a woman he doesn’t love but would be compelled to take as a wife and be loyal to until the last day of his life. Disappointment hits her like a punch to the gut and suddenly, the room around her begins to float away, numbing her to his touch around her navel as he gropes his way through her laces. “I did,” she mumbles, “but it was different, then. This—” 

Her sensations are back again when his hand overstays its welcome long after he’s done undoing her pants. “The only thing that’s different is we don’t hate each other anymore, Brienne.” Warm eyes look up from what he’s doing, for the first time in days, lingering on hers longer than a moment instead of rushing away towards everything but her. “It’s about time you stopped shying away from me.” He blinks, and she can feel her nipples harden to stone. His eyes take on a gleam they usually wear when he’s about to tease her, and with it, returns the familiar tugging ache between her legs. “We are going to be seeing each other naked often when we’re wed—”

“I know. And that doesn’t bother me,” she snaps back, snapping out of it when it dawns on her that he’s merely teasing her. “I’m not shying away from you.” Turning away, she heads for the bath before he can read the lust boiling away inside her. 

As soon as she enters, she can sense him behind her. “Of course you are—” His hand is off her, but his breath’s caressing her back like a husband’s seductive first touch, luring her into his embrace and more. “Like any bride would on her wedding night. Look at you—” She doesn’t need to look. Her cheeks flare up and so does the rest of her. “Your skin is all flushed and pink, craving to be touched, and your lips—”

“Not interested,” she blurts, succumbing to her frustration before he can go on and spell out the rest. “I—” 

When he touches her arm, her valiant effort at an objection is lost in transit. She slowly turns on her heels and plunges into his eyes, daring him to go on and prod her feelings for him, to tease her further.

But he doesn’t. Instead of hitting her with a well-aimed remark to explain his previous one, he leads her to the tub. “I—” his eyes hit the floor “—I’ll be right outside,” he says, helping her into the warm water. “Call out if you need anything.”

He’s gone for now, and the moment is over—if it was, indeed, a _moment_. She’d be a fool not to expect him to hesitate, for his touch, his kisses, his body, until now, had been reserved for a woman he’d unabashedly loved.

Yet, he’s far from gone, and she knows as she scrubs herself recalling another bath, that he’ll always linger around, haunting her body and awakening her dreams, residing in her mind forever. 

But the way he looks at her these days, the way he carries himself around her—could he possibly— 

With a splash of water to her face, she shakes the stray thought—this uninvited misconception away. _He’s only wooing me to make this easier for us,_ reasons a part of her, uprooting this pleasant doubt, pointing out that this is, perhaps, his way of reconciling, of preparing for the inevitable. Wedding and bedding her is no more than a duty for him, a promise he’s bound to fulfill at the cost of his love, a means to keep her out of his sister’s harmful reach, but to her, this would be so much more than a pact binding them together.

Will she ever be able to make that known?

 _Someday,_ a dreamy little corner of her pacifies her.

 _Yes, someday,_ she hopes, scrubbing herself harder when his lilting voice returns to invade her head. 

+++++

Her pleasurable tryst with her innermost desires comes to an end when she opens her eyes to the familiarity of the four walls that end as soon as they begin. 

Brienne takes a moment to savour what she’s been through, wishes she could go back to sleep again so she can return to the blissful realm she’s been escaping to more often than she’d want to admit these days. The gentle whispers of the sweet nothings in her ears, the firmness of his hard chest against her tender breasts, the passionate journey his fingers embark on, playing her body like a harp, bringing alive every inch of her, the heat of his kisses, the way they leave her lips swollen and sore, yet, demanding more and more, for this to never stop, for him to become hers— 

Only when his arm wraps around her middle does she comprehend that she’s draped around him in a warm intimate embrace, her head resting on his bare chest. 

_This is no dream,_ gushes her heart, when her body absorbs the steady rise and fall of his chest, when the emptiness between her legs craves for what it needs with just the slightest shift of his leg.

 _Get the hell out of this,_ screams her mind, drawing the drapes away from what is an innocent accident and no more. The little smile playing his lips as he pulls her closer—that’s not for her. It’s Cersei he’s going through this with in the world he’s withdrawn himself into, a world he can never belong to.

Yes, he will _always_ be hers, but what about his heart?

With that in mind—a deterrent enough to keep her from drifting back to her fantasies, she gently pushes his arm off her, careful not to wake him.

“It is not such a bad thing to wake up in your husband’s arms, my lady,” he slurs, his voice thick with sleep.

Brienne looks away, bites her lip. His tousled hair, the way he stretches his arms and yawns—this proves no match for the solid resolve she’d erected within her just before he had to wake up and unleash his easy charm and sensuality on her. 

“Though, when we do end up in bed together, we’re going to do more than just hold each other until we sleep,” he goes on with a teasing edge to his voice, blissfully oblivious of the storm she’s battling.

She shifts away to the edge of the bed, getting as far away as she can from him, the iron wall of composure biting the dust, the wild images in her head taking control, holding her in their iron grip. “You think I haven’t given that a thought?” 

And only when she’s blurted it out does she realize it. Her careless admission leads to another wall between them—one built from tension and her apprehension of the slurry of words she might have to parry. 

“Every—every maiden nurtures dreams of her wedding night,” she stumbles across her words, anxious to cover up her lapse. “That’s what I meant.”

“Tell me about your dreams, Brienne.” She can almost picture him propped up on an elbow, surveying her, trying to read her thoughts through the back of her head. “What, according to you, is our wedding night going to be like?”

Blushing, she lies down again facing the other side. “I never told you it was _our_ wedding night I dreamed of—”

“Of course, it was—” 

“It’s nothing. So go back to sleep and—”

“Now that you admitted to it—” she can feel the thin mattress pushed down by his weight, can feel his eyes get closer “—I can’t sleep unless you tell me more—”

She turns to meet his inquisitive gaze. “Forget it,” she sighs, knowing he’s going to keep springing this on her every now and then. “I’m not going to tell you.”

His eyes narrow down to inquiring slits. Gone is the mischief in them and doubt takes residence. “Was it Renly in your maiden dreams?” His tone takes her back to the first conversation they’d had about the king she adored, of how condescendingly Jaime had spoken of him then. “I caught you smiling in your sleep sometime back.” There’s a different sort of edge to his voice now. “Did you happen to do _things_ with him in your head, things that would make any woman blush to the roots of her—”

“I’m not answering that,” she plays along mysteriously, glad to be handed this excuse, this much-needed Renly-shaped distraction.

“Even in your sleep you can do far better than Renly, wench.” With a keen sense of interest, his eyes go deeper, as if determined to gouge out the secrets she’s desperately clutching to her chest. “I can be a good lover, too, definitely better than your pretty boy—”

“Oh, shut up. And don’t you call him my pretty boy.”

When he chuckles at her reaction, she curls up into a ball, arm over her ear in a desperate attempt to shut him out as her mind keeps throwing up visions of how good a lover he is.

Not that she needs reminding of it.

+++++

“It’s been a while now,” Brienne says, making yet another attempt to coax Jaime into resuming their travel. “I am well and I can ride—”

“You’re still sore on that side,” Jaime points out, stamping out her argument before she can even begin. “You wince when you raise your arm, which is evidence that you’re not fit enough—”

“I can manage—”

“Not until the maester examines you and says so.” There’s a finality to his voice that tells her he won’t budge, that it makes sense to let go and pursue the matter again tomorrow.

“The more we stay here, the more we delay finding Sansa,” she laments, staring down at her plate with a sinking feeling of uselessness. “And another day or two of being locked up in here—”

“—means you could use the time to do something else,” Bronn breaks in, reminding her of his presence. He eyes her, then Jaime with excitement. “Why don’t you get married before we set off to continue with our quest? I know a Sept not far from here. I can make the necessary arrangements if you say so.”

Jaime’s heavy breathing tells her he’s as numbed by the suggestion as she is, that he, too, is grappling with words to ward off this intervention. She recovers before him, though, straightens, anxious to put this right when her mind starts working again. “That’s not what I was—”

“But he’s right,” Jaime quietly concurs with his friend, the lines on his forehead hinting that he’s seriously considering this carelessly tossed suggestion. “Why don’t we wed tomorrow?” 

“Very well then.” Eager to make himself scarce, Bronn gets up, nods to Pod to do the same. “Why don’t we go make the preparations while you two—” he hits them with a loaded smirk “—talk about the _other things_ while we’re away?”

And before she can even take a proper breath, gone are her squire and the sell-sword who seems to have taken it upon himself to seal this union. 

They leave behind a silence that’s killing her. That Jaime has still not wavered from his impulsive consent, does nothing but add to her confusion. She’s known him to be rash and impulsive, but thoughtless actions in matters like this, she has to convince him, is unwise. “I don’t think we should rush into this,” she mumbles, fumbling with her knife in yet another futile attempt to cut her meat. “I hope you’ll talk Bronn out of this, and once you’ve thought about a bit, realize this is an impulsive—”

“Not an impulse—no—” he shakes his head slowly “—but something I’ve been wanting for ages, wench.” The softness in his voice makes her want to believe he wishes this, but something inside her warns her this might not be his fully aware self talking. “Knowing you was the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he goes on in the same tenderly romantic vein. “And marrying you is the only thing that can better that.”

Her fingers growing cold around her goblet, she helps herself to a generous gulp of her ale. “You’re too drunk to realize what you’re saying.” 

He grips his untouched drink in answer. “I haven’t had a sip yet.”

Convinced there’s something else in his head that’s making him cave in to Bronn’s insistence, she goes on, “Knowing me has caused you to lose your hand—”

“But it has given me so many other things,” he whispers, refusing to yield.

That he’s perfectly sober, perfectly in tune with what he’s saying does even more to stir up unbidden emotions within her. What might actually be running through his mind, though, is another thing altogether. Perhaps, hastening this marriage is his way of reconciling better with the fate he cannot escape. The possibility of this makes her want to scurry away upstairs and hide herself from the world. “Ser Jaime, we can talk about this later—”

“You’ve fallen in love with me.” 

Fingers curled tightly around her glass, she freezes. The hard truth, while he’s uttered it before, hits her tonight with an impact she’s not felt before. 

“Admit it, wench, for this denial isn’t going to work anymore. Day by day, your feelings are growing stronger, you’re unable to sleep, unable to stop thinking about me—”

“It’s just your imagination,” she cries, distressed at whatever he’s playing at. If this is another attempt to make their impending union less of a chore, he’s making an awful mess of it, something she’d rather keep herself away from. “And now, if you’ll excuse me—”

Abandoning her meal and the man she can never _truly_ have, she huffs away as fast as she can, this painful exchange much more severe than any injury she’s been made to endure.

She returns to their room, lies back sleepless and empty-hearted, shutting her eyes, pretending to be asleep when the door clicks open and his footsteps make it to the bed.

“I know you’re awake, Brienne.”

Knowing she can’t put up this farce for long, she springs out of the bed, standing tall to confront him, to take in her stride whatever he might decide to fling at her. “You were right,” she attacks before he can start, the ale in her veins giving her the courage she’d never have otherwise mustered. “I can’t sleep, can’t stop thinking about you,” she fiercely admits, daring him to come up with a fitting reply. “So what if I’ve fallen in love with you?” she comes clean before she can stem the flow of her emotions. “That’s not your problem—” her voice cracks under the strain, gives way just like the calm that no longer lives inside her “—I don’t expect you to reciprocate, to—” 

“I can’t sleep either.” 

His reply, but more than that, the way he’s chosen to express it—the depth in his voice, the little something in it that screams of something she can’t quite fathom yet, leaves her scampering around her brain, picking her head for what next to say.

And this, he takes advantage of.

Binding her to himself with a gaze she doesn’t want to break away from, he steps into her private space, and suddenly, he’s towering over her, making her feel like one of those dainty maidens about to swoon at the unexpected appearance of the prince they could never have. “Nor can I stop thinking about you, my lady.”

She wants him to keep going, to draw her deeper into this—this _dream_ or whatever it is.

And he does.

When his arm is around her and his mouth on hers, all of it—the built-up anguish, the frustration, the helplessness—they all melt away, leaving behind the most exquisite sensations she’s only known in her dreams before. His kiss sweeps her away to a destination that is a dream, yet better than her dreams and so real that it cannot be a dream. 

The heat of his body, when he holds her close, lights her up, filling her with warmth and desire only he can quench. “I love you, too,” he mouths softly into her breath, every word, right from the depth of his heart, reaching out to the farthest corners of hers, ousting out the remotest traces of emptiness and the rejection she’s suffered all her life.

When he kisses her again, then again, and then once more, he tells her with every touch, with every press of his lips on hers, that this is just the beginning.

When he lets go of her, she can see his heart in his eyes. And there’s no Cersei in there anymore.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t have done this had my father not pushed me into it—” He drops down to one knee and takes her hand. “But this is what I’ve wanted for long—” pressed down by the feelings choking her, he breathes into a pause “—only all these years, I didn’t know what I really wanted.” 

“I might not have agreed to marry you had your father approached mine, had things unfolded differently between us,” she admits in hushed tones, recalling how much she’d once recoiled at the mere mention of the Kingslayer’s name. “But now, after all this—” She grasps his hand, vowing never to let go of it. “Like you, I, too, have been unaware of what I really want. That letter to you—” She kneels before him, looks deep into his eyes. “This—” she presses her lips to his knuckles “— _this_ is what it means,” she confesses, ready to give him her world, to make him her world.

“I want to marry you, Brienne.” He leans in, and her heart picks up pace in anticipation of another wonderful kiss. “Not just because it’s the right thing to do, but because I love you.”

Their lips meet again with an impatience Brienne doubts might tear all else apart, and with this kiss, she seals her consent, but before her racing mind can jump to what might come next, Jaime pulls away and swiftly gets to his feet. “Tomorrow, it is, then.”

“Where are you going?” she asks, getting up to follow him when he hurries to the door.

His eyes are blazing, the flames intense enough to engulf her. “I’d rather spend this night away from you, my lady.”

She can see why, can sense the hesitation in him. “Trust me, I’d want nothing more than to—”

“I want the same.” His hand is on her cheek, his thumb gently strolling along the width of it to caress her lips. “I’ve been dreaming of it night after night, but I wouldn’t want to soil your honour before we’re bound for life.”

A part of her hails his virtues while another, aching for this night to be the one, battles with it. “It wouldn’t be _soiling my honour_ if we were to be man and wife tomorrow,” she reassures him, on an afterthought, adding, “Not even otherwise.”

“But it wouldn’t be our wedding night—” He steals another kiss, and before she can kiss him back, he withdraws, leaving her yearning for more. “I want it to be better than your maiden dreams, Brienne,” he says, his hoarse voice bathed in naked lust. “Dream all you can, my lady—” back in his eyes is the gleam she’d seen the other night when he’d questioned her about her fantasies “—for all you have is just this one night.”

Leaving behind a pleasant tightening in the underside of her belly, he makes to leave, and that is when it occurs to her to correct a misunderstanding she’d deliberately left in his head. “Those dreams I’ve had—”

She pauses, and his grip around the doorknob tightening, he turns.

“They weren’t all about Renly,” she coyly reveals, not bothering to hide her flushed cheeks, her shining eyes, her fluttering eyelashes and trembling lips. “Not the ones after Harrenhal.”

His lips curve in a suggestive smile that leaves no part of his unabashed intent hidden. “Hold on to them for one more night, my lady.” 


End file.
